


Helpful Hands

by HappyJuicyfruit



Series: The Ups and Downs Of A One Armed Man (And His Idiot Boyfriend) [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-07
Updated: 2016-05-07
Packaged: 2018-06-06 21:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6769951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyJuicyfruit/pseuds/HappyJuicyfruit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John goes through a troubling time, Sherlock finds a way to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Helpful Hands

**Author's Note:**

> To read this story you should probably first read Amputee. This is set three months after Amputee has finished.  
> Sherlock and John have officially been together these past three months, and here is a window into how their relationship is going. 
> 
> Like the last fic, I am leaving a warning for those who have issues with PTSD and nightmares. There are also some sexy time scenes in this fic, so ratings beware. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy!  
> Thanks for stopping by, and happy reading :)

It was hot, extremely hot. The kind of heat that you remember for the rest of your life. John Watson looked up, squinting at the sun that was directly overhead.

Laughter behind him made him turn around, but he only found miles of empty dirt and sand.

“John.” A whisper in his ear. 

John swiveled, but there was no one around.

“John.”

He turned again, but there was still no one here.

“Whose there?” He called.

“Have you forgotten us already?”

“Forgotten who?” He groped for his sunglasses, thinking it was too bright to see the stranger. The sun was growing more blinding by the minute.

“You don't deserve it.”

“Deserve what? Who are you?”

“You don't deserve it!”

“I don't understand..” John looked down to figure out why he couldn't get a good grip on his glasses to find that he had no hand to grip with. He staggered back, only to run into someone.

“YOU DON'T DESERVE IT!”

“I don't want it!”

He tried to move forward but arms wrapped around him.

“ _IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN US!”_

Blood oozed up from the sand.

“Let me go!”

He couldn't see behind him, he couldn't escape.

“John.”

He squeezed his eyes shut.

“I didn't want it!”

The arms didn't let go, even when he jerked his head back and heard a loud grunt.

“John!”

“I'm sorry!”

“It's okay,” someone said into his ear, “you're safe.”

It wasn't a whisper. Nor was it a shout. John opened his eyes.

The street lamps outside were on, illuminating Sherlock's bedroom window. John gasped in a ragged breath and glanced at the clock. 3:45 am.

“You're alright now,” Sherlock said into his ear.

“Sherlock,” John's voice only came out in a wheeze. Which meant he'd been shouting again.

Sherlock didn't let go for another minute. Which was fine, it gave John time to catch his breath. Eventually though, he released his hold. John sat up, moving to the edge of the bed. He whipped his hand over his sweating face.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered.

“Would you like to talk about it?” Sherlock whispered back, ignoring the apology.

No, thought John. But he knew he would have to. The nightmares always got worse if he didn't.

“Not right now.”

“Alright.”

Sherlock slipped out of the bed and padded into the kitchen. He heard the kettle click on.

John's nightmares were the only thing that ever made Sherlock make tea.

It was not worth it, but at least it was something.

John stood, walking to the bathroom to rinse off some sweat before joining Sherlock in the kitchen.

\--

Sherlock listened to the shower running as he took down mugs. John's nightmares were getting worse.

It had been three months since they had become romantically involved, and Sherlock was still trying to work out what triggered these nightly events. It would help if John would tell him what the dream was about.

He had long ago given up on his plan to assimilate John back into society. When Sherlock had made it clear that he wanted John around all the time, John had relaxed. He now asked Sherlock to find cases when he was bored.

He even sometimes found cases on his own. Sherlock could not imagine a better partner.

The water shut off, Sherlock set the steaming mugs on the table. A minute later a shaggy haired John Watson was sitting across from him, looking worn out.

“Do you want to talk about it now?”

John remained silent, staring into his tea. There was a chance that he had not even heard Sherlock.

Sherlock new that these nights were hard on him.

He understood that recovery from trauma often appeared worse when the victim was healing. He understood that that every person had different experiences, and different brain chemistry. He understood that you can not just make a plan, follow the different stages, and then presto, have a sane and healthy war veteran.

He understood, but he had really quite liked his plan. And he hated when his plans didn't work out.

“It's never been the same.”

Sherlock blinked, trying to get back into the moment.

“The dream?” He asks.

“No,” John looks wistfully down at his hand, curled around his mug, “drinking tea has never been the same. Like only half of my body can feel it's warmth.”

Sherlock nods because he does not know what to say. He rarely knows what to say in these few moments when John admits that he is missing an arm. “I'm sorry,” is what he eventually comes up with. For the fourth time in a row now.

John sighs, “not your fault,” he replies, for the fourth time in a row.

They sit in silence for a while, but Sherlock senses that they are both waiting for the other to say something. This is frustrating, since he has no idea what John wants him to say.

“Do you want to talk about the dream?” Sherlock ventures once more.

John finally looks up from his tea, his eyes flitting across Sherlock's face. Whatever he sees there makes him give Sherlock a sad smile.

That is not what Sherlock wanted to gain.

“It's never the same dream.”

“Oh.” He had assumed it would be the same. The moment it had happened. “What was happening in this one?” Sherlock asks hopefully. If he could just get some more information, he could start researching.

“I was standing in the desert looking for my sunglasses.” John replies in a deadpan voice.

“That doesn't sound terribly frightening.”

“No, I suppose it doesn't.” John looked down again, taking a drink of his tea.

“You said you 'didn't want it.' That was referring to the glasses, then?”

“No, I don't suppose it was.”

“What was it referring to? Was someone there with you?”

John drained his tea, setting the mug back on the table before standing up.

“Thank you for the tea, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched as John made his way back to the bedroom.

Damn it.

He didn't like this. He didn't like feeling like an interrogator every time his partner had a bad dream. John evidently liked it even less.

Glancing at the clock, Sherlock decided that 5 am was not too early to get up.

Sherlock went over to his desk, opening his laptop. He would either do some more research about PTSD nightmares, or skim through London's news until he found a case. Something had to fix the mood that was falling onto Baker Street.

Something was not right. Sherlock was going to fix it.

Or something was going to break.

\--

  


  


 

  


The next morning John lies in bed thinking that perhaps it's time to get a new therapist. If he could just have one night of uninterrupted sleep, he would be a happy man. But alas, Ella says it will happen in time. She's not the one who hasn't slept in a year though.

Groaning, John pushes himself out of bed. In the three months that he and Sherlock had gotten together, most of John's things had found there way down to Sherlock's room. A few remained upstairs, John enjoyed having a space to call his own still, but this room was slowly turning into theirs. He supposed he should offer some of his closet space to Sherlock soon. It would only be fair.

As he's getting dressed he listens for voices. If he and Sherlock are the only ones in the flat than he doesn't wear his prosthetic. Lestrade, Mrs H and Molly have all seen him without it now too, come to think of it. Ella still doesn't think that John is making progress. He really does need a new therapist.

Not hearing anything, John exchanges his sleep shirt for a jumper. He twists the left arm into a knot so that it won't swing into any flaming experiments throughout the day. (Speaking from experience).

John goes to the loo to finish getting ready before slipping into the kitchen to make tea. It's not until he leans into the sitting room to ask Sherlock if he would like any that he realizes that Sherlock is not in the flat at all.

John stands there a moment and thinks about that. Had Sherlock come back to bed after their midnight tea chat? He couldn't remember, he'd passed out pretty fast.

John shrugged and went back to making his tea. However, opening the fridge made him pause again. There was a new liter of milk sitting innocently on the bottom shelf.

They had only been dating three months and John already knew that Sherlock only bought milk when he was feeling guilty.

John sighed, leaning in to grab the handle before closing the door with his foot. What had Sherlock done this time? It must have been pretty bad if he bought milk before John even knew about it.

Tea made, John carried his breakfast over to his chair. He was only slightly annoyed that he had to carry his tea and toast separately (he called that progress, Ella). Which he of course eyes suspiciously before sitting on.

Munching quietly John wonders what his crazy boyfriend has gotten himself into this time.

 

\--

Sherlock came home dripping.

Dripping. Head to toe, soaked through, in cooking oil.

He would not mind this so much if John would just stop laughing.

Currently, his partner has slipped off of his chair, gasping for breath. Every time Sherlock tries to say something, John just laughs more.

Grumbling, Sherlock starts to peel his disgusting clothes off of him. He drops them randomly as he makes his way to the shower. Sherlock smirks when he realizes that John's laughter ebbs with every piece of clothing he takes off.

For that reason, he leaves his pants on. John doesn't deserve any rewards right now. Once inside the loo he strips them off and throws them into the corridor. Could be an invitation, could be mockery. He can't even tell himself at this point. Blasting the water, Sherlock steps into the spray.

It takes three rounds of scrubbing before the oil comes off.

He's putting conditioner in his hair when he hears the shower curtain being pushed aside. He doesn't turn around though. He waits.

They have never discussed it, but it is rather obvious that John is still uncomfortable with his own naked body. It took two months after they were together before Sherlock saw him without a shirt on outside of hospital.

He feels finger tips trail down his back. They stop above his buttocks, hesitating.

Sherlock turns then, and John meets him with his mouth. Their lips move together. Their tongues brush against each other.

Sherlock roams his hands through John's hair. Down his chest. Over the side's of his thighs. He stops when John pulls back. He knows that there is a fine line they balance on every time they are nude together.

This time, however, he need not be worried. John licks his ways down Sherlock's neck. He squats between Sherlock's thighs. Sherlock watches, mesmerized, as John licks the head of Sherlock's cock. John looked up at him with a glint in his eye before sucking Sherlock down.

Sherlock moaned, leaning his head back. He really needed to find out where John had learned to give such good head one of these days.

John flicked his tongue over the head of Sherlock's cock.

All thought left Sherlock's mind.

All Sherlock could do was pant as he watched John bob along the length of his erection. He placed his hand on top of John's head, cradling the back of it. When he was close he patted the hair, John pulled back and finished him with his hand. Standing, John captured his mouth again. Sherlock moaned into his mouth as he spilled into John's hand.

–

John always felt satisfied after he had succeeded in getting Sherlock off. Orgasms always gave Sherlock droopy eyes and lazy smiles. John loved Sherlock all the time, but post-orgasm Sherlock was one of his favorites.

He watched as Sherlock toweled himself dry. The man was proud of his body, and after John had seen him naked, he could understand why.

Sherlock's body was thin and toned. There was no excess fat, or hair, there were barely any scars. The only thing that Sherlock hid from the world were a few faded marks on his arms from needles. Sherlock had never brought them up, so neither had he. John didn't like to think about them anyway.

Catching his look, Sherlock stopped toweling his hair and moved toward John. John smiled at him, thinking maybe Sherlock was about to return John's favor.

He pulled away when Sherlock started drying John's arm. He didn't need people doing stuff for him.

Sherlock sighed, but he didn't say anything as he passed the towel over.

They stood in silence until John dropped the towel in the hamper. He glanced over at Sherlock, but lazy smile was gone.

A spike of anger flared through him, why did Sherlock have to do that? Why did he have to ruin their fun with pity?

Sherlock said something that John didn't catch.

John blinked, “What?”

Sherlock gestured towards the shower, “did you want me too..?”

“Don't bother.” John bit out. If Sherlock didn't want to, John wasn't going to make him.

“Oh, um..” Sherlock swept a hand through his hair, “I'll just go put clothes on then.”

It wasn't until John caught the pained expression on Sherlock's face as he tried to squeeze out of the door that John realized that he was being a dick.

“Sherlock, wait.”

Sherlock stopped, but he didn't look up.

“I'm sorry. Did you want to continue?”

“Only if you want to,” Sherlock murmured awkwardly.

Right. “Let's just, uh. Let's get back to this tonight, yea? After some dinner?”

Sherlock nodded before slinking out of the room, his face morphed into an unreadable expression.

John did not know what just happened, but he had a sinking feeling it was his fault.

–

Mood swings, mood swings, _mood swings_! Sherlock fumed at himself as he threw his clothes around his room. There was always something that he forgot. How was he meant to help John, help their entire relationship, if he could not read simple PTSD symptoms.

Sherlock picked up a pile of clothes and hurled it across the room. After the pile slid to the floor, upturning a few items off of a shelf on the way down, Sherlock stopped his rampage. He glanced around his room and sighed.

He was not meant to be the sane one in a relationship. Actually, he was not sure he was even meant to be in a relationship. He was a 'freak', a 'weirdo', an outsider. Sherlock Holmes was not meant to get prince charming at the end of the story.

Sherlock closed his eyes and took in a deep breath. He let it out slowly, collecting his thoughts and emotions.

If he was going to be the sane one, he had to do it properly.

What had caused the change? What had Sherlock done? He had tried to dry him off. He had offered to help John with something.

God forbid a man wanted to help his partner. Sherlock made a note to stop offering any help.

With that set, Sherlock opened his eyes and went about cleaning his room before John noticed.

–

After the shower incident John had retreated upstairs to his part-time bedroom. The jumper he wanted to wear tonight was up here, and really, he needed time to think. John assumed that they were going to have to have a talk. Sherlock always liked that idea, talking. Even if John rarely agreed. Although talking might not be a bad idea after what just happened.

As it turns out, talking is not what Sherlock had planned for their evening.

John came down the stairs to find a fully dressed Sherlock holding Johns coat out to him. John gave him a questioning look as he accepted the coat, but Sherlock bounded down the stairs in lieu of a reply.

By the time John had put on his coat and shoes, and had run out the door, Sherlock was already halfway down the block.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock's pace slowed, but he did not stop.

“Hey, wait up!”

Sherlock still did not stop, and John had to do a bit of a trot to catch up with the bloody long legged man.

“Thanks for waiting,” John said with a huff when he caught up to the man.

“Anytime.”

John sent him a glare, but Sherlock wasn't watching him.

“What's the rush? A case?”

Sherlock glanced down at him, “no, dinner.”

“You made me run for dinner?” John asked with a frown.

“I didn't make you do anything,” Sherlock replied, haughtily turning his face forward again.

“Tosser,” John nudged him with his shoulder with a smile. Sherlock didn't face him, but he smiled too.

–

The dinner went spectacularly, in Sherlock's opinion. As they walk back, Sherlock slips his hand into Johns. John doesn't always like this, having your one hand be held makes you a tad vulnerable; but tonight, John smiles and gives his hand a squeeze.

They walk back in companionable silence, breathing in the crisp autumn air.

When they get back, after the coats and shoes are removed, John pushes him against the wall and kisses down his neck. Sherlock wraps his fingers around John's waist, raising his head to give him better access.

John nips at his ear, “bed?”

“Yes.”

They make their way down the hall. Sherlock's shirt is unbuttoned and thrown aside. John's belt buckle is undone, his jumper and vest pushed up by Sherlock's hands, which are currently scratching down John's back.

John pushes him onto the bed before straddling him. His tongue is in his mouth, his teeth are biting his lips, his hands are under Sherlock's vest stroking his nipples. Sherlock is moaning into John's mouth. His hands push John's Jumper and undershirt up, up, up, until John is forced to sit up and take them off.

Sherlock enjoys these moments, when he has a naked John in his lap. John has to remove his arm out of the jumper first, before he can pull it over his head, and then off of his prosthetic. Then John undoes the clips and straps that go over his chest that keep the prosthetic in place. Once all straps are undone John gently removes the plastic arm, laying it on the bedside table beside them. After that, he pulls off the under layer of cloth that covers his scar, this piece he carelessly throws over his shoulder.

Sherlock runs his hands over John's chest, smiling up at him when John turns his gaze back down again.

“Now, where were we?” John asks with a devilish grin.

Sherlock thrusts his hips up against him as a reminder.

“Quite right,” John smiles, leaning down to recapture Sherlock's mouth.

The kiss lasts a long time. In this position, Sherlock has access to all of John's chest and back. He explores to his hearts content. He wants to have John's entire body memorized so that when he sleeps, he will be able to feel John's curves and scars in his dreams. John has been building up the strength of his right arm, he is able to hold this position much longer than he had been able to only a few months ago. Their sex life has improved by leaps and bounds since then.

When Sherlock feels the tell-tale shake run down John's arm, he knows its time to flip them. He doesn't want John to be tired out before the fun begins.

Now that Sherlock has John splayed out on his back, he can work his way down John's body at his own pace. Sherlock licks and sucks Johns neck, his nipples, the slight pudgy area around his stomach. He has John arching his back before Sherlock has even touched his cock. He kisses up along the inside of one of John's thighs, then moves over and kisses down the other one. He glances up to find John watching him with pleading eyes. Sherlock smirks back up at him, he is not done teasing just yet.

He kisses down and down, but does not take John into his mouth. He kisses around the cock. He sucks the soft skin of his ball sack. He twirls his tongue in circles around them, feeling extremely proud to make John quiver. He trails his tongue up back to the base of John's cock, pausing a moment to suck there as well.

“Sherlock!” John practically whines.

Sherlock leans back just enough so that his voice with breath warm air onto John's throbbing erection.

“Yes, John?”

“Please!”

“Please what?”

“Please, use your mouth on me!”

Sherlock jokingly raises an eyebrow, “why, I thought that's what I was doing?”

“You know what I mean you bastard! Please suck me!”

“As you wish,” Sherlock replies, and then proceeds to swallow John down.

Sherlock works his both down and up John's shaft a few times, enjoying the taste of feel of the erection in his mouth. John winds his fingers into Sherlock's head. He doesn't push, but he does grab a fistful of Sherlock's hair. Sherlock feels his own erection push against the zip of his pants, but he focuses on John for now. He pulls off of John with a pop, holding the shaft up with one hand, putting the other hand down to massage John's balls. He licks the head of John's cock, flattening his tongue over the slit, and twirling around the top.

John unclenches his fist, running his fingers through Sherlock's curly hair. When Sherlock moves his hand from holding the shaft to running up and down it, John pushes Sherlock's head down. Not hard, but Sherlock knows what he wants.

Taking John back into his mouth he bobs his head at a fast pace. John arches his back, his head rolling to the side. Sherlock pulls up, and without removing his mouth, massages the underside of John's cock with his tongue. John pushes his head back, moaning louder. The hand in Sherlock's hair is once again squeezing into a fist.

Sherlock knows he doesn't have much time left, and continues to bob up and down John's dick. When John whispers, “Sherlock, I'm going to, I'm gonna-” Sherlock takes John's cock down his throat the farthest it can go. He loves feeling all of John's cock as it spurts into Sherlock's throat. He sucks it all out, giving John a few more licks before removing his mouth completely to rest his head against John's hip. When their eyes meet, John gives him a lazy smile, and gently pushes Sherlock's hair off his face.

“You are very good at giving head, Sherlock Holmes,” John tells him breathlessly.

Sherlock places a kiss on John's hip before crawling back up the mans body.

“I'm good at everything, John,” Sherlock flops onto the bed beside him.

“And oh so humble as well,” John smirks, turning towards Sherlock and pushing their foreheads together.

They lay like that for a moment, eyes closed and breathing each others air. Unfortunately it can't last long, as Sherlock's erection is really becoming quite unbearable. He thrusts against John's leg to try to relieve some pressure.

“How cruel of me, leaving you in such a state,” John says jokingly as he helps Sherlock remove his trousers and pants.

Sherlock was planning on rutting himself off on John's side, but John is already sliding down the bed.

“You don't have to, John, you already did earlier today.”

“The quicky in the shower? That barely counts compared to what you just did,” John smiles at him before taking Sherlock into his mouth.

John had never given a blowjob before they were together. Every blowjob John has given is better than the last. John now knows where to suck, when to just bob his head up and down. He even knows that Sherlock likes a bit of teeth near the end. Before long, Sherlock's breathless gasps fill the room.

John kisses his way back up Sherlock's stomach.

“Two blowjobs in one day? John, you spoil me.”

“You deserve it,” John replies, nuzzling his nose into Sherlock's neck, “you're amazing.”

“Are you saying that one of mine is worth two of yours?” Sherlock asks with a laugh.

“No,” John sits up, his face serious, “I'm saying that I'm sorry for snapping earlier. You're amazing Sherlock, really.”

Sherlock suddenly feels uncomfortable, he had not asked for an apology. All of the humour that had been in the air is now gone. He rolls onto his side so that they are lying face to face again, “it's fine, I shouldn't have-”

“No, Sherlock, you did nothing wrong.”

Sherlock looks down, plucking at the duvet, “I dislike seeing you upset.”

“Hey, look at me.” John is running his fingers through Sherlock's hair again, Sherlock looks up, “it is not your job to cure me of all my insanity, okay? That's on me. The curable stuff, anyway.”

“But I want to help.”

John gives him one of his kind smiles, “and you do, Sherlock. Everyday, you help me. Just by sitting there sometimes. But what I'm saying is, it's not your fault. Sometimes I snap, or pull away. It's not you, okay? It's me. I have a hard time reading peoples motivations, or accepting help, even if I want it.”

Sherlock nods, he can understand that.

John leans forward to kiss Sherlock's forehead. They lay together, naked, breathing each other in. Sherlock feels like a huge weight has been lifted off of his chest. He will not have to resort to creating a list of rules after all. Which is probably for the best, rules and steps did not go very well for his interactions with John the first time around.

Laying there beside this wonderful man, Sherlock feels like he could do this forever. He closes his eyes, and pushes their foreheads together again.

–

The next morning John walks into the sitting room to find Sherlock in a staring eye contest with a strange man.

His first reaction is panic.

Sherlock does not get quiet around visitors and Mrs. Hudson did not send him up or John would have heard. There is also the fact that John is standing here in a t-shirt and no arm. He glances at Sherlock, who has not looked away from the stranger. He looks annoyed, but not threatened.

No danger then.

He looks back at the man. There is something about him that's.. familiar. He was looking at Sherlock with a calm, yet snide, expression. He had also not glanced towards John at all.

Alright, thought John, I know Sherlock's methods, use them.

So, this man knew Sherlock, knew him well enough to walk into his house uninvited. Judging by his posh clothing he was wealthy. He was holding an umbrella even though it hadn't rained for a week, that was.. weird. And he had yet to even look at John's direction, even though John had been standing here for almost two minutes now.

A rude, weird, posh git who walked into peoples homes unannounced? A-Ha!

“You must be Sherlock's brother.”

The man turned toward John, Mycroft (if it is Sherlock's brother) flicked his eyes up and down John's body, “indeed,” he replied with a sneer.

John walked forward, hand outstretched, “it's nice to meet you, I'm John Watson.”

Mycroft stared at the offered hand for a moment before grasping it with his own, “pleasure.” He said, although it somehow sounded like a joke. The handshake lasted about 5 seconds. Rude.

“Well, I would offer you tea, but I wasn't really expecting guests,” John straightened his back. This man wouldn't insult him in his own home.

Sherlock snorted behind him, his first sign of life.

“Apologies, Mr. Watson, my brother has the habit of not being home if I attempt to make plans with him.”

“Can't imagine why,” another snort from behind him, “and it's Doctor.”

Mycroft gave him a slimy smile, “I wasn't aware you were practicing.”

“Hmm,” John tilted his head, his eyes squinting in mock thought, “still a doctor.”

John turned and strode into the kitchen, he was going to make tea and not offer any to the prick. Sherlock watched him gleefully as he strode past.

John's entrance had apparently ended the staring eye contest that had been taking place before, now harsh whispers followed John into the kitchen. But once he entered the kitchen, all thoughts of whispering brothers left his mind. Their kitchen had been renovated over night.

The cupboards that lined their walls had had all of their doors removed. Their appliances, mugs, plates, everything! It had all been reorganized. As John looked around, he realized that this was for him. It would be faster to make tea with the mugs stored closer to the counter, with no cupboard door in the way. He no longer had to worry about dropping plates if they were stored under the counter. All of Sherlock's things had been moved to the highest shelves. Opening the fridge, John found no body parts, and instead, a jug of milk. John was sure there was more, he could just not comprehend the changes right now.

Closing the fridge door John walked to the middle of the kitchen. He stood, taking it all in, ignoring the argument ensuing behind him. Then, with a military like nod, he strode into the bedroom to get changed. There was something he had to do.

–

The downstairs door opening and closing was his first sign that John was not making tea. Turning around and looking into the kitchen proved it.

“Already having trouble in paradise, brother?”

Sherlock shot Mycroft a glare.

“Just because he wants to avoid you, does not mean he wants to avoid me.”

Mycroft sniffed, “don't 'significant others' usually tell the other where they are going?”

Sherlock chose not to respond to that, “I've already told you I won't take your case, why are you still here?”

“I wanted to meet the mysterious man who stole my little brother's heart.”

Sherlock smirked, “yes, and what a grand first impression you had.”

“Oh please, like it matters. You'll be bored of him by the end of the year.”

Sherlock scowled, “No, I will not.”

Mycroft sighed heavily.

“I'm serious, Mycroft.”

“Oh well,” Mycroft rolled his eyes, “if you're serious, I take it all back.”

Sherlock glared, “I'm sorry, don't you have to get back to your serious relationship? What was their name again...” Sherlock tapped his chin, “oh right, cake.”

“Very funny.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock stood up, walking towards the window. He was tired of his brother and he wanted to go after John. Had he not liked the changes in the kitchen? Did the no helping rule still apply?

“You seem troubled, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn't reply. From the window he could reach his violin case balancing on the desk. A few moments later he was plucking strings, getting ready to drive Mycroft out of the flat with annoyance.

Despite this clever idea, Sherlock lost himself in his thoughts plucking the strings. He knew there was a chance John would not like the kitchen, he had a plan to put it back tomorrow. If John did like the kitchen, he had more ideas for their flat. Mycroft's case really was mildly interesting, perhaps he would look into it when Mycroft had more to offer. Maybe Lestrade has a better case?

Where had John run off too?

The door slammed shut downstairs, and John's footsteps could be heard bounding towards them.

Sherlock turned around to find that an hour had passed and Mycroft was watching him with a peculiar expression.

John walked into the room holding a plastic bag with a giant smile on his face.

“Hello love, oh,” John stopped halfway between the door and Sherlock, looking at the chairs, “he's still here.”

“You came back quickly,” Mycroft replied, he sounded more confused than John.

“Yea,” John replied, turning away from Mycroft to talk to Sherlock, “I just had to pick something up. Something that will make the kitchen perfect.”

Sherlock's stomach fluttered, “but you like it? The kitchen?”

John smiled at him warmly, “I love it.”

They smiled at each other until Mycroft was forced to clear his throat quiet loudly.

“Yes, right,” John blushed, “here, Sherlock, this is for you.”

Sherlock accepted the bag curiously. After he ripped the plastic bag away, he found that he had in his hand a bio-hazard container. He looked up at John in excitement.

“Don't get too excited, it's just some fingers.”

“You got me fingers,” Sherlock said in a hushed voice.

“Of course,” John replied, taking the fingers back and walking towards the kitchen, “it's not our fridge unless there's a body part in it after all.”

Sherlock stared after John in wonder, marveling at the man who somehow loved him back. He did not forget that his brother was in the room, however, and turned to face the snide remark he knew was coming. Mycroft wasn't facing him though, he was also staring after John.

Before he could say anything, John walked back into the living room.

“Oh, Mycroft, sorry I keep forgetting you're here. Would you like some tea?”

“Thank you for the offer, but I should be leaving,” Mycroft didn't move though. And after a moment, he stood up and took a step closer to John, holding out his hand, “it was a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson.”

John shook his hand, even though he glanced at Sherlock with a confused smile, “you too, come by again sometime.”

“Yes,” Mycroft said, but it was like he was in a daze, “yes, I might have to.” He finally started to walk towards the door. Unfortunately, he turned back at the last second, “and Dr. Watson?”

“Yea?”

“I apologize for underestimating you. It won't happen again.” With that said, Mycroft slipped out of their flat leaving Sherlock to stare at the space his brother left in confusion.

“Your brothers a bit weird.”

“Hmm..”

“Then again, so are you.”

“Mhmm..”

John pulled him down onto the couch, snuggling against Sherlock's side.

“Wait, what?”

“Nothing,” John said all innocently, leaning in for a kiss.

–

John made them dinner that night. He told Sherlock it was to get used to the new kitchen, but Sherlock knew it was a thank you. Which was entirely unnecessary, since Sherlock had only wanted to help.

As they sat and ate from across the table from each other, neither of them spoke. Every once in a while their eyes would meet, and Sherlock could feel his heart warm.

After today, he knew that they would be fine. More than fine, even. Everything was perfect.

**Author's Note:**

> I have more written for this series so there will be more parts after this. However, I am very busy in my life at the moment and I am not sure when I will be able to post them. 
> 
> But they will be posted! At some point! 
> 
> Thanks again :) 
> 
> Please leave a comment if you have anything you would like to say!


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